


I Wear My Grandad's Clothes

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Chubby Thorin, Comedy, Humor, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6956194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten years since Erebor was reclaimed, which means a celebration, which means Thorin has to wear the robes of state. Robes which both Thorin and Bilbo hate with a fiery passion. </p><p>There's only one small problem...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wear My Grandad's Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madame_faust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/gifts).



> madamefaust prompted: Erebor!AU? I kind of just want Bilbo and Bombur getting all the lads nice and hale and hearty since the war’s done, it’s time to settle down and really, all of Thror’s court robes are just /hanging/ off of Thorin. They need to fix that.
> 
> Technically fits in to my chub!Thorin universe, albeit set in Erebor whereas most of those are Shire AU. A fun, silly one-shot that was a joy to write. I hope you enjoy!

Erebor was growing prosperous.

Ten years after the battle of half that many armies, trade had flowed back to the region in earnest. Dale was rebuilt, thanks to the mastery of dwarven stonemasons with too much time on their hands and free rein (what with the former Lake-town folk having no skill in stonework whatsoever) to do exactly as they pleased. The results were… formidable. Certainly they would withstand another siege, with their ornate walls extending so high it was lucky they did not block out the light. Apparently some dwarves had seen Minas Tirith as a challenge.

Certainly if the dwarves had been busy outside the mountain, they had been positively frantic within it. Every stone surface and twiddly bit of filigree was not only restored, it _shone_ as if in defiance to any who would dare disparage their halls again. A decade later, dwarves still clung to every surface like the mountain goats they so favored, but this time it was in preparation for the coming feast that would celebrate the tenth anniversary of the kingdom’s recovery by King Thorin Oakenshield II and Company (plus Consort).

Former glory, however, was not so welcome for everyone involved, Bilbo thought, frowning as he chewed on his lower lip. He and Thorin were both regarding the royal attire with similar looks of consternation, if not outright discomfort. Neither of them much liked the idea of seeing Thorin once more in the robes he had made famous during his madness.

Thror’s royal regalia, complete with the Raven Crown and fur-lined cloak, was only trotted out on extremely rare occasions. It had taken a great deal of finagling to give Thorin an exemption for his official coronation, and that was only because he was gray-faced from his injuries and looked ready to fall over at any given moment. A doctor’s note from Oin had explained to the satisfaction of all involved that the weight alone might mean they were burying their king as soon as crowning him, and something more sensible would be necessary.

Unfortunately, these were not just any royal robes. They went back to Durin himself (the Seventh incarnation, as nothing had survived from the First) and had come down to Thorin by detour of Moria, to the Grey Mountains, and finally to Erebor, from eldest son to eldest son. Certainly a burned sleeve had been replaced here, a bit of scrollwork there, in fact each stitch had been replaced at some point since its creation, but it was still, most importantly, _Durin’s robes_ and so could not be tossed down the nearest mineshaft, which Bilbo for his part would dearly like to do.

After all, as these were the robes Thorin had worn during his bout of dragon sickness, none of the accompanying memories were terribly pleasant ones. Especially for Thorin, if only for their sheer ostentation. He was, in fact, quite modest in his dress most of the time, save for necessities of family heirlooms and armor. Now both of them viewed the days when he had worn the robes with nothing less than intense shared embarrassment.

“Perhaps they won’t fit?” Bilbo said glumly. “They were hanging off you last time.”

“I thought they fit well enough,” Thorin observed.

“How would you know? I’m fairly sure you thought the moon was cheese those days. Utterly bonkers, crazed as a loon, barking, howling…”

“Even so,” Thorin interrupted. “They should even fit better now, unfortunately, which I’m afraid leaves us without an excuse.” After a moment, “Unless you would like to steal another priceless heirloom of my family?”

“It was _one time_!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“Pity,” Thorin said. “We could always set the room on fire.”

“And take my mother’s doilies with them? Not on your life,” Bilbo said.

“Moving the doilies out first would be somewhat suspicious,” Thorin said.

They looked back to the robes.

“Maybe we could…” Bilbo began.

“Wouldn’t work,” Thorin said.

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Bilbo sighed. “Well, my love, I’m afraid that leaves us with nothing for it. Perhaps next time we can forget the mothballs and let nature take its course.”

“I thought that was your last suggestion?” Thorin said.

“No I was going to say…”

“Ah, my mistake. Perhaps if we…”

“Now I’m quite sure _that_ wouldn’t work,” Bilbo said, and it was Thorin’s turn to sigh. With a grim expression, Thorin began shedding his clothes for the day, then stepped free of the pile to begin putting on his grandad's clothes…

* * *

Bofur _howled_.

“They really don’t _fit_?” he exclaimed between gasps for air.

Thorin glowered at Bilbo’s side, back in his clothing from earlier.

“Come now, brother, it’s not really a surprise,” Bombur said gently. “King Thror was an elderly dwarf the last time he wore the robes of state, and Thorin has been a much _healthier_ lifestyle since we reclaimed the mountain.”

Bofur snickered leaned in conspiratorially towards Thorin. “What he means is, you’re looking a great deal more imposing these days, though we’re sure Bilbo here has nothing to complain about.”

Which was Bilbo’s cue to commence a coughing fit as he choked on the requisite ale of any night spent in the ‘Ur family apartments in the palace, and for Thorin’s glowering to intensify.

It was true though. The first year was lean, mostly supplemented by the leafy generosity of the Mirkwood court, negotiated by Kili’s paramour Tauriel, and King Thranduil was all too happy to make sure the people of Dale were well fed, and the dwarves of Erebor had all the greens they could choke on. But once word got out that the gold of Erebor was once more in circulation, merchants from all corners of the world flocked to the city, bringing their goods with them and seeing that the lean year quickly became a thing of the past. This was much to the relief of the dwarves, who now shuddered at the memory of a vegetable, and to Bilbo who finally received the first shipments of his furniture from Bag End, including his mother’s dishes and doilies.

The other side effect had been that Thorin now spent a great deal more time sitting in council chambers negotiating trade than he did fighting desperately for his life. This combined with the many required feasts whenever this mineshaft re-opened or that contract was finally signed, meant that even the most ravenous hobbit would pause and say, “Oh dear, now that is a _bit_ too much.”

As a result, Thorin had filled out in the last decade, and with the addition of enough beard to be decorated with a modest braid and single mithril bead, he was every bit the fearsome dwarf lord Bilbo had grown up hearing about (mostly in horror stories designed to make young hobbits behave). The picture was somewhat ruined by the fact that Bilbo knew the soft and in fact quite tender heart that lurked beneath (for everyone except elves, as some prejudices would never be shed, even if Thorin did grudgingly adore Tauriel).

Thorin crossed his arms across his (much broader) chest and leaned back in his chair. His irritation seemed more directed at Bofur, who was still giggling into his beer, than the comments about his appearance. After all, hobbits valued size as much as dwarves did, as Bilbo had been all too pleased to demonstrate many times and with great enthusiasm (perhaps excessively, he would admit, but there was something about rounder forms that just _did_ something to the common hobbit brain, and who was he to argue on this one point in which he was a very common hobbit indeed?).

“There’s only one more day to the festival,” Thorin pronounced. “Dori is unavailable…”

“He threatened Thorin with the fabric shears if he even hinted at adding to the Tailors Guild’s workload,” Bilbo added.

“Ah, the fabric shears,” Bombur nodded sagely. “Must be serious indeed.”

Thorin ignored this. “Even Nori’s resources are stretched thin. I am seeking any advice you may have.”

He said the last with such formality and appeal that even Bilbo beside him felt a little flustered, as if he was being asked once again into Thorin’s deepest confidence, rather than to dig him out of a rather embarrassing mix-up that could have been avoided with just the slightest bit of forethought.

Not that he was one to talk, goodness knew how much they both hated those robes.

“We-ell,” Bombur said, his thick Ered Luin accent thickening even further with speculation. “I’m not sure I can help you with the robes, Thorin, but I may be able to ensure no one really cares about them…”

* * *

“This is not what I had in mind,” Thorin muttered. Bombur beamed.

Announcing that the festivities would revolve entirely around (yet another) feast, in celebration of the bounty that had come to Erebor, had several side-effects. The most important one being that no one much cared what Thorin was or was not wearing. In truth, he probably could have come to the table naked without any fuss whatsoever, given that said tables groaned with a truly absurd number of savory dishes that could tempt from the other end of the underground city, and probably in Dale.

“Here now, Thorin, weren’t you supposed to wear the official robes for this occasion?” Balin said from Thorin’s right hand between bites of a truly excellent roast, the meat cooked to perfection and falling off the bone.

Thorin went pale at Bilbo’s side, and the hobbit could only look on in horror to his husband as he faced off with Balin, this greatest upholder of dwarven tradition.

“…They, uh, weren’t ready in time,” Thorin said. There was a pained hush as Balin mulled over this new bit of information, chewing absently, and Thorin shrank back in his chair with a wince already prepared.

Bilbo was much more prepared when it came to survival, having already risen half out of his chair for an emergency sprint to literally anywhere else.

Then Balin shrugged.

“Never did like them anyway. That golden scrollwork? So Second Age, I don’t know what Thror was thinking. We really should get you something a little more flattering, my lad. Perhaps in blue. Wouldn’t you agree, Bilbo?” Balin said.

Both Thorin and Bilbo froze, then exchanged a look before easing back into a comfortable sitting position, Bilbo with a mildly hysterical titter.

“Oh yes. Blue, looks lovely with your eyes, my dear,” Bilbo said, his own eyes looking a bit wild.

As soon as Balin’s attention wandered once more the two of them leaned in as if on cue.

“Does this mean we can burn them?” Bilbo muttered under his breath, but Thorin was already answering.

“Fire would be sacrilege, but there are halls within halls… they need never see the light of day until Fili’s coronation,” Thorin said. Bilbo considered this.

“A bit extreme, don’t you think?” Bilbo said. They exchanged a glance.

“No.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If so, please consider leaving a comment, and/or come check me out on Tumblr, where I'm also Avelera.
> 
>  
> 
> If you would like an alert for when I publish original novels and short stories, you can sign up [here](http://eepurl.com/dnzuV1).


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